


Necking in a Maze

by LadyDrace



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Constipation, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Halloween, Hank Anderson Being an Asshole, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, POV Hank Anderson, Post-Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26654293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: Connor and Hank go to a pumpkin patch and there are mazes and stuff too.Hank is an offensive asshole, as per usual, and Connor uses every word he says against him.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 25
Kudos: 99





	Necking in a Maze

**Author's Note:**

> Looked over by the NOICE Nearyyy. Thanks, friendo!

“Is there anything _you_ want to do?” Connor asks, still admiring the pumpkin he’s just finished carving with surgical precision, and it slams into Hank with shocking force.

He has no idea where that old, long-buried memory even comes from. Left field, is his guess. But there it is, and he shakes his head, trying to make it go away.

Connor, however, never has a shred of shame about using his investigative skills on Hank, and immediately pounces on it. “What? Come on, Hank, tell me!”

His enthusiasm is annoyingly adorable, and in the last year Hank has been exposed to it at least once a week, since Connor has apparently made it his mission in life to spend his weekends having _all_ the life experiences. And for some reason Hank always ends up tagging along.

He’s still not sure why that is, exactly.

And every single time they go to petting zoos or malls or beaches or whatever catches Connor’s fancy that week, he always asks the same question. Whether there’s anything _Hank_ wants to do. And though he never comments on Hank’s denial, it also never fails to make Hank feel like a dick for brushing it off.

So he figures that maybe he can do a little sharing. Just this once.

“Ugh, _fine._ Uhm. Well. When I was… I dunno, maybe fifteen? I went to a place like this with pumpkin carving and games and mazes and shit. Not because I _liked_ that kinda stuff, oh no, I was _way_ too old and _cool_ to like anything _fun_ ,” Hank drawls, making it clear how much he considers his teenage self a complete moron, and Connor’s small grin is so achingly sincere and beatific it’s enough to make a grown man cry.

_Shut up_.

“So anyway, I came here with a, uh… a _crush_ , for lack of a better word. And I was really hoping for some necking in the maze or something, but it turns out I’d read things _totally_ wrong and, uh. Things got awkward. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Connor’s eyes widen just a little bit, and if Hank hadn’t already spent the better part of a year doing near-weekly road trips with him in his quest for self-actualization or whatever, he might delude himself into thinking he’ll be left alone now.

_Fat chance._

“And… you want to do some necking in the maze, now?”

“Connor, whu- _no!_ No, it just came to mind for some reason!”

“But it came to mind when I asked you if there’s anything you want to do. I find that interesting,” Connor says, and Hank rolls his eyes.

“Maybe you’d also find it interesting that every time I see commercials for crime shows I think of murders, and that sure as hell doesn’t mean I wanna prance back to work and look at some more corpses! _Smartass_ ,” he grumbles and heads for the car.

Connor follows, cradling his carved pumpkin, and gently deposits it in the back seat when they get there. But, instead of getting in, he leans into the open passenger side door, and fixes Hank with one of those goddamn sincere looks that always somehow convinces Hank to _do_ stuff. _Ugh_.

“Hank. Please accompany me to the maze.”

“Fuck off.”

“Hank. _Please?_ ”

He digs out some of his best and filthiest curses as he swings himself back out of the car and slams the door closed behind him. Just to make it absolutely clear that he’s doing this under protest, dammit.

  
“Cheer up, Lieutenant,” Connor says, using his title in a way that might make it seem like he’s trying to make amends. But _oh boy_ , does Hank know better by now. This little shit is mocking him. As per usual. “Maybe there’s something interesting in the center! Look, according to this sign there’s a treasure!”

“Oh, _bull_ ,” Hank grouses, and strides through the maze without even pretending to get lost. Connor is hot on his heels, making small disapproving huffs, but Hank just wants to get this over with.

He should’ve known. He should have _fucking known_.

“You _knew_ ,” he snarls at Connor as they reach the center, and find the _treasure_.

It’s a tiny, marble bench, barely wide enough for two people who are willing to sit real goddamn close, and there’s a plaque on the front, informing finders that this is the _Lovers’ Nook Bench_. Clearly an all-year-round feature that the hay-bale maze was simply constructed around.

_Give your sweetheart a Halloween treat!_ a garish, orange sign proclaims, poking out of a candy bucket nearby. But considering the candy inside looks _dusty_ , and also suspiciously plastic, that’s not the intended treat. _At all_.

“To be quite frank, I think you did too, Lieutenant. And I suspect that’s where that old memory came from.”

“What are you, my shrink now?” Hank snaps, ready to just walk right the fuck outta here, only to turn around and find Connor staring at him again with those sincere eyes. Fuck, he really needs to turn down the volume on those peepers before Hank has to do some introspection or – god forbid – _feel something_.

“Hank,” is all Connor says, and Hank’s not sure what to make of that tone of voice. It’s not mocking, nor is it admonishing. Plaintive, maybe? Fuck, _Connor_ is supposed to be the one struggling with human emotions. Hell, maybe this _is_ just Connor not knowing how tone of voice works.

Yeah, _right_. Connor, RK800, top of the line model of _s_ _martass_ not knowing how to lace his voice with exactly what he wants to say? Not likely.

“What,” Hank says without inflection, arms folded across his chest like a cranky toddler.

Connor just keeps staring, as if he can make Hank understand what the fuck he wants from the sheer power of prolonged exposure to eye contact. Fuck, maybe he _can_. Hank always was a sucker for brown eyes.

“Please join me,” Connor says, and sits down on the tiny bench all prim, like he _didn’t_ just ask his old fart of a partner to squish his fat ass down next to him on a literal love seat.

“In your dreams.”

Even as he says it, Hank knows he’s fucked. Because he could turn around and leave right now. But he’s not doing that. He’s just standing there like a fucking moron, as if he can convince himself to not have feelings if he just looks angry enough.

It’s obviously not working, but, even if it was, Connor is apparently done with his bullshit.

“Hank, I’d like to think my partner isn’t a complete idiot. So if you would please sit down on this bench with me, and pretend for a moment that you have even the smallest semblance of self-awareness, then maybe we can actually get somewhere.”

“Get somewhere?” Hank blurts, definitely feeling something now. _Embarrassed as hell_. “Get somewhere _how_? This isn’t a crime scene!”

“And maybe I wouldn’t have to treat your whole personality like one if you could stop for a minute and consider what you _want!_ ”

“Being lectured on wants by an android. What the fuck.”

Connor makes a sour face, that somehow still looks adorable, and Hank decides to let himself finish that thought for once.

  
  
“This android wouldn’t _have_ to lecture you if you’d just sit your ass down on this bench. Necking is optional,” he adds, like he isn’t turning Hank’s entire world view upside down with only a few words.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Hank says again, with feeling. Ironic, really.

“I didn’t want to have to do this, Hank,” Connor says, and Hank is already bracing for manhandling like fucking usual. But then it dawns him what Connor is up to, and _hell no_.

“It started before we even got here,” he goes on, in full analytical mode, right there on a fucking _kissing bench_ , and Hank has never wanted a drink more in his goddamn life. And that’s saying something.

“No.”

“Yes. When I asked you to join me to this event, you said, and I quote: _I know the place_. This would indicate that you do indeed know this place. Or have, at the very least, been here before. On Halloween or otherwise.”

“Connor-”

  
  
“When we arrived, you chose to park near _this_ maze. You could have chosen the corn maze instead, which is advertised as the child-friendly one. I assumed at the time that it was because of bad memories, but, whatever the case, I highly doubt you followed all the signs, and yet somehow missed that this maze is referred to as _T_ _he Sweetheart Maze_. It’s right there on the sign out front. Constructed every October around the famous local attraction _The Lovers’ Nook Bench_ , erected in 2015 by then mayor Aisha Bindy in celebration of the legalization of same-sex marriage.”

  
  
Hank points an accusing finger at him. “Look, _Sherlock_ , you’re making a hell of a lot of assumptions right now-”

“Shut up, Hank. You’re a detective. One of the most highly decorated officers in DPD history. You’ve solved cases no one else could, even while highly intoxicated. You keep pretending you’re just a drunken fuck-up-”

Despite basically being schooled on _himself_ , Hank can’t help a stab of pride that his foul language is rubbing off on Connor. And he only just barely manages to shut down his brain’s helpful suggestion of _other things_ he could rub off on Connor.

“-but the evidence is stacking up against you, _Lieutenant_. You know where we are, and what this place is for. You even shared an emotional memory prompted by this very place. You can try and delude yourself all you want, but you _know_. All you have to do now is decide whether you want to follow through or not.”

Fuck this fucking android.

Luckily, there’s still one more ace up Hank’s sleeve. He might make his escape yet.

“Well aren’t you fucking clever. But, see, there’s one thing you’re forgetting, Einstein. It takes two people, bare minimum, to do any kind of necking. And so far I haven’t heard a single word about what _you_ think you’re doing in here.”

Connor looks at him like he’s an actual, literal idiot, and, considering the next words out of his mouth, that may well be the reality.

“Hank. Please sit down on this bench so I can kiss you.”

He knows he’s gaping unattractively, but there’s no stopping it. And yet, it doesn’t seem to affect Connor’s determination in the least. He remains there on the bench, hands on his knees like a boy scout, leaving half of the tiny seat empty for… for _Hank_. And still just staring at him.

No. _Gazing_ at him.

God fucking _dammit_.

He’s gonna have to turn in his fucking badge after this. How he could have somehow missed that all Connor’s staring wasn’t staring at all is frankly humiliating, but, in his own defense, he’s been quite drunk for most of the time he’s known Connor. He’s cutting down, but these things don’t happen overnight.

Plus, he’s spent by far the most of that same time denying any and all feelings he might be having, except maybe for anger. That one’s at least useful sometimes. But allowing himself to feel things means remembering _why_ he feels things, and that road is _not_ the road to less drinking.

“If I do this,” his mouth starts saying without Hank deciding it, and, fuck it, he might as well roll with it now. “You don’t get to hold this over my head.”

“I’d frankly much rather hold your hand,” Connor says without missing a beat, and Hank has to rub his palm across his blazing face, because that _smooth motherfucker_ …

“Fucking hell, Connor...”

He can’t bear to watch Connor’s face as he lets his feet carry him to the bench and sits down. There’s literally no way to sit there without plastering himself up against Connor, and Hank spends a few conflicted seconds debating what to do with his limbs, until Connor makes the choice for him, and eases one of Hank’s arms behind and around his shoulders.

“There,” Connor says, all quiet and private, and Hank _has_ to look at him now. And holy hell, what a smile he’s greeted with. A delighted, toothy thing that makes all the air leave Hank’s lungs. God, Connor deserves better than a damaged old prick like Hank.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but Connor is clearly on a different schedule, and without so much as a by your leave he slips a hand up to cradle Hank’s neck, and tilts his head down enough to catch his lips in a soft but definitely awkward kiss.

_Christ, his first kiss is with_ _ **me**_ _of all people_ , Hank can’t help but think to himself, even as he pulls Connor closer and gently teaches him how it’s done, one slow slide and push at a time.

When Hank finally pulls away for a breath, Connor lets out a small, satisfied sigh, and while Hank still really wants to object to everything, there’s an old, rusty part of him that feels quite smug about the fact that he’s clearly still got it enough to make that noise happen.

“Look, Connor,” he murmurs, not sure where this leaves them. But clearly now is not the time, because somewhere nearby there’s suddenly a sharp clearing of a throat.

“Hey, uh, fellas? As adorable as that exchange was just now, I kinda have a girlfriend here I wanna smooch too, so uh… could you like… take it outside?”

Connor glares at one of the hay bales as if _it_ and not the voice behind it is responsible for breaking the moment, and Hank can’t help but huff out a laugh at the absurdity of everything.

“Right, right, sorry, getting outta your hair now!” he calls, and gets off the bench, Connor making a small sound of disappointment as they disengage. But Hank makes it up to him by holding out his hand, and has to smirk at Connor’s adorable confused face. “You wanted to hold my hand, right? Well go for it, then, you little shit.”

Connor graciously doesn’t remark on the name calling, but he’s also clearly preoccupied, flashing a thousand megawatt smile Hank’s way as he jumps up from the bench and takes the offered hand. So Hank lets that one slide, and takes the marked route through a couple of secret doors that lead them out of the maze in barely a minute, Connor’s weirdly smooth hand clenched in his the whole way.

“Let’s go home,” Hank says, as soon as they’re outside, and, fuck, he somehow also hadn’t realized that Connor _lives with him_ now in all but name. He has his own side of the wardrobe, for fuck’s sake.

A slight pull on his hand forces him to stop and look back, and oh crap, that smile right there is the shit-eating variety.

“You’re sure you’re not also harboring any secret desires to bob for apples or-”

“Shut the fuck up and get in the car,” Hank snaps. But he also doesn’t let go of Connor’s hand until absolutely necessary.

All in all he’s calling today a win. Soul-deep mortification and all.

He’s still an old, grieving drunkard, but Connor’s hand is on his knee the whole way home, and once Connor has placed his carved pumpkin just right on the stoop outside, it’s time for more necking.

Yeah. Definitely a win.

End.


End file.
